


All The King's Horses

by autiotalo (orphan_account)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/autiotalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The path of true love never, ever runs smooth. Especially when your bandmates are interfering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christoph

**Author's Note:**

> Part 4 contains a quotation from chapter 6 of Lewis Carroll's _Alice Through The Looking Glass_.

To this day I don't know what started it. In retrospect it'd been building, piling up on the horizon like thunderclouds; but when the storm broke, it did so with such violence that it scared the hell out of me.

If we were ruled by stereotypes, then I should be the calmest guy in our group. Drummers are supposed to work out their aggression, man. But if that's true, then I must be in dire need of anger management, because I'm always on the bloody things. Till calls me the drum-machine, and it's true, I guess… You can get some sort of inner peace in a rhythm, when the pain in your arms stops hurting and dulls to a pleasurable ache; when your mind goes blank to everything but the pound of the beat. When your blood sings to it, then you're there: the space that lies behind orgasm, the drift towards oblivion that you sometimes feel as sleep pulls you under after too many nights spent lying awake.

I don't get that peace very often, though. There's always an awareness that I have to vary the beat: go slower, go faster. A drum-machine would react to its programming; I'm still too human, and my instincts are too raw.   
Raw. I feel kind of raw right now. Like I've been trying too hard with something and now it hurts. Not that sort of hurting that makes you reach for the aspirin, nor the kind that has you hiding under the duvet, but the kind that makes you want to tell someone about it, just in case it's a mortal sickness.

Actually, I think it was the talking that did it. Christ, but that man could yap for Germany and several other EU countries besides. You'd think that after all the time we've spent together, he'd know when to shut the fuck up. But no! He has to witter on. And on. And on. About nothing. About everything. We could drive past some road sign and he'd have a story about it. Even if it was just _Children Crossing_ or _Give Way_ , he'd find some way to drivel on about it for at least ten minutes – by which time something even more fascinating had shown up, so then he could talk about that.

Yeah, and that irritated me, too. Even if he was saying something interesting, just as he was getting into the topic, he'd switch subjects. And not go back to the first one. Oh God, can you only imagine? He'd be talking about a shampoo advert on a billboard then would suddenly slam straight into a monologue about Ötzi. He wouldn't even have linking phrase. Sometimes he'd make the switch mid-sentence. That could be funny, though, especially when he was talking at Till.

Till has this great expression, where he sits there and stares at you, and little by little his eyebrows go upwards and his eyes get wider and wider until he looks so stupid everyone notices and wonders what the hell caused The Expression to be used this time. Usually it's the same thing. Paul's relentless gabbing.

Don't get me wrong, conversation is good. Richard can talk like a fool as well, but he's enthusiastic and chirpy and a little like a puppy that wants to play. And like a puppy, you can kick him away and he won't be offended. But Paul. He's so… argh! He does my head in. I mean really, really: he completely does my head in. And no matter how many times I tell him to fuck off and leave me alone, he does this hurt look that he must practice in the mirror for it to have the effect that it does. For approximately thirty seconds I feel guilty as hell; then he buggers off to irritate some other poor sod and the feeling passes. God, I tell everyone to fuck off and leave me alone sometimes but they don't have a strop like that. Apart from Till, but then his mood swings from Mr Happy to Mr Miserable Bastard in the space of a heartbeat, and then we just kind of snarl at each other and grump and sit down and sulk in silence until we forget we're in a mood with each other.

But Paul… He doesn't forget. He wants to know why we're in a mood. He once badgered Oliver for three hours about   
something. I swear to God, Olli can be the most patient guy on this planet but ever since then, whenever Paul sits beside him and starts chirping away, the poor man just… wilts.

I'd like him a lot more if he shut his mouth once in a while. If he'd stop talking. But this is the essence of Paul: chat, chat, chat. About the only time I can bear his constant yammering is when we go drinking, because then all I have to do is put a glass of something in front of him and – oh, bliss! – he drinks! He shuts up! Then he's wonderful company. But the rest of the time, he's more trouble than a woman. Yes, definitely more trouble than a woman, because I can't get away from him. Did I mention he drives me mad? Argh!

So. Here I am. My head hurts, but I haven't been drinking. I'm trying very hard to ignore the fact that less than two feet away from me is a body, nestled under the quilt. If I keep my eyes closed really, really tight, then I won't see him. He'll vanish, and I can wake up properly and pretend this never happened.

There's a rustle, a sigh of breath as he wakes up and moves. I can't look. We didn't do anything. I know this, because I'm still fully-dressed. I hope to God that he is, too. It's bad enough that he's sleeping in my bed, stealing my bloody duvet and hogging my pillow.

The mattress shifts as he lifts himself up. He's looking at me, judging my attempt at fake sleeping. I know it's bad.   
It wouldn't fool a five-year-old. In a minute he'll open his fucking mouth and say something about it being bad. I can't stand it. Bugger!

I open my eyes, very cautiously.

Yes. He's got all of his clothes on, too. Thank God. I've only shared my bed with one other man before, and while that was more of a drunken bit of fun between friends, and I hadn't ruled out the possibility of it happening again – I really don't want it to be with… him.

We stare at each other for a moment.

Any minute now. Any minute now he'll start chattering. Then I'll have to kill him. Even if he says 'Good morning' or 'What are we doing fully-dressed in bed with each other?' These are perfectly reasonable things to say, but I'll kill him anyway.

He doesn't allow me the satisfaction of killing him. He stays silent. Bastard! I hate him, he drives me – ugh. Insane. I think I make some sort of weird noise that somehow conveys my thoughts. He looks worried. Yes, Paul, be worried… be very worried… and don't talk. No! Don't!

He takes a breath, and I cringe inwardly. But still he stays quiet, and then he sort of inches closer to me. Uhm. What's he doing? Nooooo, don't do that. Don't bloody well kiss me you fool!

Oh, shit.


	2. Till

Inevitable is a word I despise. Some things – death and income tax, as the saying goes – yes, some things are inevitable; but the rest? Inevitability is a lie. All things can be avoided, or evaded, with enough practical or intellectual application. It's a word, not a command nor a prophecy.

So why do I find myself uttering the hateful phrase, "It was inevitable," in the slightly acerbic, told-you-so tone of voice that I hate in others?

It's too early in the morning for me to be this hypocritical. It's too early; the day is too bright, and the view is too tranquil for me to be saying rubbish like this.

Christoph perches on the armrest of the sofa and swings one leg back and forth. "Inevitable? Why?"

I prod at the pile of toast on my plate and try not to compound my hypocrisy. "Well. You've been at each other's throats right from the start. It was inevitable -" there I go again, "uh, it sort of followed that you'd end up in bed with him."

"I didn't!" he protests, a very faint blush touching his cheekbones.

"You just told me that you did."

"Well, yes. But not like that, and you suggested -"

I give up on the toast and pour myself a cup of coffee. "I didn't suggest anything. Have a coffee."

"Coffee." He looks bemused, as if the concept was alien to him.

"Yeah. You drink it. See?" I show him. He's still staring at me. Probably wondering how I can babble such crap when his inner world is in such turmoil, etc.

He takes a deep breath. "How can you -"

Yep, I was right. I drink my coffee while he berates me for not taking him seriously. I'm a bad friend. So sue me.

"Now what do I do?" he moans, putting his head in his hands and flopping back dramatically onto the sofa. "I mean, it's not exactly a big deal…"

"No," I agree, checking my watch. "In fact, it's so unimportant that you've been telling me about it for fifteen minutes   
now."

He takes his hands from his face. "I have not!"

"Mm-hmm. And I'd say at least eight of those minutes has been spent in some sort of denial."

Christoph rolls onto his side and gives me an evil glare. "Sometimes I really hate you, Till Lindemann."

"I get so sick of being adored," I say dryly. "Just because I'm right -"

"Yes."

"Just because you trust me -"

"Yes."

"Just because you wanted to screw Paul -"

"Yes. Wait! No!"

With one hand I catch the cushion he hurls at me. All without spilling my coffee. Damn, I'm good. I throw the cushion back and he grabs it, stuffs it behind his head and rolls over again to stare at the ceiling.

"I don't want Paul like that."

"So you say." I finish my breakfast and shuffle the chair around so I can look at Christoph properly. "Inevitable, though."

"I want to kill him, not fuck him," he sighs. He gives me a warning glance, wags a finger at me. "And none of your poetic shit about _petite morte_ , please."

"The thought never crossed my mind. It's an over-rated metaphor at the best of times."

"This is the worst of times," he mutters.

I have to grin and come back at that one. "Then don't lose your head."

There's a silence for a second, then he groans. "Pack it in, you bastard. I'm miserable -"

We can play this game for hours, but it's not particularly appropriate now. Christoph is genuinely bothered by Paul's interest; or he thinks he's bothered but in secret he's flattered… otherwise he wouldn't be going on about it.   
Except now he's quiet and thoughtful, his gaze fixed on the wall and his hands folded almost prayerfully across his stomach. His legs are still folded over the arm of the sofa, and he kicks his heels gently against the plum-coloured fabric in unconscious rhythm.

He just can't stop. He doesn't even realise he's doing it.

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, watching him until he blinks himself back to awareness and turns to me once more. "What shall I do, then?"

I shrug. "I don't have all the answers."

Christoph draws up one leg so that the arch of his foot rests on the inner edge of the armrest, then he wriggles on the cushions until he can hook his leg over the back of the sofa. Really, it should be a crime for a man to have legs as long as that. "I don't need an answer. Just some advice," he returns thoughtfully.

"Advice? You going to ask all of us to vote about this?"

He wrinkles his nose. Cute. "No, you idiot… Fuck it, Till, just give me your opinion."

"Well," and I assume my voice of wisdom, "experience is always a good thing."

A flash of something from those eyes. I'd forgotten just how pure a blue they are. "And your experiences have all been good, haven't they?"

Christoph can do sarcasm so well; and I deserved that dig if only for my inane, useless spouting of platitudes. But at the same time, it annoys me; so I snap, "Then just fuck him and forget about it. You either care or you don't. Rather than lie there wondering about it, go and do it."

For someone who takes such care over what I write, I wish to Heaven that I could do the same with the words that leave my mouth. That was entirely the wrong thing to say, and I knew it as soon as the first sentence was over and Christoph's body tensed. Now he kicks his foot faster against the sofa, and his fingers are drumming an agitated little tattoo, one against the other.

"Fuck him and forget about it. Yeah, that's right…" His voice has taken on a bitter note. "Was that how it was with me, then?"

Good one, Lindemann. Walk into a minefield and jump up and down, just to see what happens. Clever. Very, very clever.   
"We were drunk, it was a laugh," I say wearily, stepping around that particular mine with the fatalism of one who knows he's about to set off another. "And it was years ago."

"So you can forget about it." He kicks his foot so hard that his heel hits the inner structure of the sofa with a bang; and, suddenly aware of himself, he goes absolutely still for a moment. "I'm being really stupid, aren't I."

I'd like to agree, but in my great sagacity I keep quiet this time. It was rhetorical; or rather, it was a comment.   
"I just wish he wouldn't talk so much!"

Poor Christoph. I can see what he means, but… I rub a hand over my face and grimace at the rasp of stubble. Damn, I need to shave soon. I stand up and stretch lazily, then say, "Maybe he talks so much for a reason."

"Huh?"

Christoph turns to look at me again, and as he lies there draped over the sofa I have a brief, pleasurable memory of him lying draped over me. Hell, I don't need to remember that. Hmm, or do I?

"Did he talk to you this morning?" I continue patiently.

"No… Erm, didn't give him much chance really," he says, suddenly staring at his hands and starting to kick his foot again. "I mean, I came here before he could start his bloody yapping."

"And you don't find it strange that he didn't say anything?"

Christoph frowns, doubting himself, his memory, and Paul – all at the same time. Dear me, the man can be so dense sometimes. Do I have to spell everything out? One day I'll start charging for this…

"I… Um. Oh." The frown deepens. "Maybe – perhaps… um."

"Very succinct. Couldn't have said it better myself," I remark, and I'm rewarded with another irritated glance.

"I hate it when you laugh at me," he snaps; and this time there's a flicker of real hurt behind his eyes.

"Not laughing. Touchy this morning, aren't you?"

He turns away again and plucks at the nap on the cover of the sofa. At this rate the hotel management will be charging me for a new suite of furniture. He's already kicked the shit out of it; now he's worrying at it like a penitent counting the rosary. "I wanted some help, not your fucking sarcasm," he growls finally.

Help? Very well, I'll help you…

With two strides I'm across the floor and leaning over him on the sofa, my hands either side of his head so that – in effect – he's pinned.

Christoph freezes, his eyes wide as I get closer. His expression is not so much that of a rabbit caught in the glare of the headlights, but more like a stag facing the gamekeeper. Poor stag. Poor Schneider. The hunt has only just begun, and I'm merely the one to raise the cry. I'm not the one who'll hunt him to ground. Not this time.

He's had enough chance to protest, to throw me off. He doesn't. His eyes close and his body arches up towards mine as I lean in to kiss him; but for all this display of desire, there's a reticence in him.

No, it's not me that you want, is it? I know that. And now you know it, too.

I kiss him anyway, just for good measure. Honestly, the things I do for my friends. And although he was expecting it, he makes the tiniest sound of protest, and then – stupid bastard! – he returns the kiss.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

And then there's a knock on the door, and without waiting for a response, Richard wanders in, all bright with the joys of morning.

Following him, just as chirpy, is Paul. Except the smile fades from his face so fast I have trouble retaining the initial impression of it.

Oops.

That wasn't supposed to happen, either.


	3. Richard

Love's a strange emotion, I always think. We all love on some level; some of us will go deeper, some higher; and some will stay in unquestioning ignorance and passively accept whatever sparkles of love come their way. The latter group will never realise that love can bite harder, and although they may fly, Heaven will hide the fullness of its fire from them.

I believe in dreams, and I believe in truth. Love, even in its basest infection, haunts both: and when spoiled, soured by emerald jealousy, then we have a terrible tendency to let go, to stop fighting.

I would always fight for love.

Paul just wants to fight Till.

The idea is – as far as the image goes – very funny. Beside me, Paul trembles with a rage that is quickly gone; he won't take on Till, even though I have the sneaky suspicion that Till would just stand there – or sit there, rather. He'd just take it, with total calm and maybe that bored expression he does so well. And that would infuriate Paul beyond all measure.

I must say that Christoph is doing a rather good impression of a damsel in distress. Curved out over the sofa like that, with an expression of radiant 'who, me?' innocence: well, it wouldn't fool anybody. He's not being menaced by Till; he just wants a hero – and he's staring straight at Paul.

Oh, shit. That makes me the trusty sidekick.

Well, I've played worse roles, so here we go…

"Morning!" I say, totally disregarding the fact that we've been standing around in silence for a couple of minutes.

Till responds, waves a hand at us, then he budges Christoph up on the sofa so he can sit back and assume The Expression in readiness for Paul's commentary.

Christoph doesn't move far enough across, and so the cushion he's resting his head on is sort of against Till's waist. They look very snug, except for Till's blank look and Christoph's gaze upon Paul – which has gone from soft and appealing to hard and challenging.

Paul finally rouses his voice and he does exactly what I expect him to do; what we all expect him to do.

"Till!" he bursts out, his tone hectoring. "Richard and I waited ages for you at breakfast; why did you eat here? Although after yesterday I suppose it might be wiser if you were to keep away from the hotel staff. I mean, I never saw anybody look more embarrassed -"

The Expression takes on basilisk-like proportions. Paul frets too much these days. Not so long ago, he'd have laughed at the idea of Till wandering out of a shop with a handful of goods not paid for; today it's a source of shame. To be fair, I do see his point – but then he knows as well as I do that Till has this weird sort of approach to money, whereby if he's not fully engaged in buying something then he tends to forget that some kind of cash transaction has to take place. He doesn't mean to take stuff. It just happens. He doesn't think. He's fine in supermarkets, where things are kind of necessary for survival, but put him in a shop where he has to buy gifts for the kids and he can barely function.

Not unlike Paul when it comes to Christoph. The man is in complete meltdown. It's rather sweet, really, but it'd be a lot easier on the rest of us if they stopped circling each other like this and actually did something about it…

A good idea would be for Paul to shut up right now. Till has sat and listened patiently for fully five minutes, and now he's had enough. He gets up and paces around the room, and Paul's voice falters slightly. Christoph curls up on the sofa despite the sudden expanse of space, hugging his knees to his chest and staring at the carpet. Till's gaze rests on me for a weary moment, then slides towards the door. He's thinking of making a break for it.

To my relief, he doesn't. Instead, he points at the seat on the sofa and talks over Paul by the simple expedient of raising his voice. "Sit down."

I have to hide a smile as Paul baulks, then all but hurls himself across the room to sit.

Christoph doesn't move away, but he does curl tighter into himself. The pair of them look like naughty schoolboys. Neither of them will acknowledge the other, but they watch Till walk back and forth as if waiting for benediction.

"Fucking hell," is what he actually says; then he stomps off to the bathroom in disgust. I shrug at the terrible twosome and follow him to lean against the doorframe and watch him test the water from the taps.

"Get those two idiots out of my room," he grumbles.

"You do it. It's your room," I remind him, and he gives me a brief smile.

"I've had Chris trying to convince me that he's not interested in Paul," he says, examining the silvered can of shaving cream for a moment before shaking it up.

"Trying. And failing?"

He catches my gaze in the reflection of the mirror set above the sink, and he closes his eyes in mock despair. "He couldn't convince a rigged jury."

I grin; then shift my weight slightly so I can peer out into the main room. They're just sitting there, in sudden and total silence: Christoph still looking at the floor with a calm belied by the relentless and restless drumming of his fingers on his knees. Paul is trying not to look at him, and as I move again, he glances up at me and has an expression of such uncertainty that I shake my head.

Misunderstanding me, Paul frowns and opens one hand to me, palm upwards. If he thinks I'm going to shout advice across the room at him then he's sadly mistaken. I shake my head again and then flap a hand towards Christoph. Go on, do something, you idiot!

"What's going on?" Till asks softly, his voice barely audible above the rush of the water into the sink.

"Nothing." I turn my attention back again. He's shaving, his concentration absolute and yet distant as the razor flashes up. It's always kind of interesting to watch mundane stuff like this. The nature of man is in the boring and repetitive, not in grand gestures. Yes, God is in the details; and even though Till doesn't believe, he's more orthodox, more catholic, than anyone else I know.

A strange combination, but what the hell. It works.

"Nothing? Shit, do they need a map or an instruction book or what?" he mutters at his reflection, wiping the steam from the mirror and glowering at the result.

"Paul's not saying anything," I report.

Till puts his head back and runs the razor up the sweep of his throat to his chin. "Of course not," he says. "Same reason he talks too much: now he goes into silence… It's obvious."

"Well, of course… We wouldn't be so bloody stupid, would we?" I say, glancing back into the bedroom. Still nothing doing; so I look back and wonder why Till is staring at me in the mirror, the razor redundant for a moment, held under the glittering rush of water.

"You're never stupid, Rich," he tells me with perfect seriousness; then he shakes the water from the blade and resumes shaving, leaning a little closer to the mirror this time.

I allow myself a small smile. He can be so far-sighted at times; yet at others, so unseeing. But then, the greatest prophets are blind.

Out in the bedroom, Christoph has changed position. No longer curled up defensively, he's unwinding, settling back into the sofa and stretching those endlessly long legs out in front of him. He does this slowly, deliberately; he's playing to his audience although he affects not to. His fingers cease their drumming to smooth elegantly over the cloth of his trousers, running from the knee to midway up his thighs. A simple gesture, one made unthinkingly, perhaps; except Christoph knows exactly what he's doing, and Paul – poor fish bedazzled by baited hook – follows the movement with an intensity one should reserve for brain-surgery.

As languid and as encoded as a Burne-Jones painting, Christoph rests his hands on his thighs and then breathes in; a deep breath that has his chest lifting sharply. Hell, he's good; I'll give him that. He looks so innocent, yet acts with the practised contrivance of a whore. I have no doubt as to the outcome of this little ritual; but I was wrong on my initial impression. Christoph doesn't want a hero. He doesn't want an audience. He wants –

"Have they gone yet?"

Till interrupts my thoughts and I frown at him, then smile. He's got a towel draped about his neck and his shirt is half-undone. Less of a prophet and more of a man in need of his room back.

"Take a look," I say, and he leans across me to stare around the doorframe.

Paul is sitting bolt upright on the sofa, watching Christoph's fingers move in beat. I know that if I could see his face, he'd look captivated, entranced. Why doesn't he do something? Say something, touch Christoph, put a hand over those insistently-drumming fingers?

For a moment I stand there, willing Paul onwards, wanting him to break the silence that rests about them; then something happens.

Christoph suddenly moves, releasing the tension that was in him this whole time as he sits up and faces Paul with a kind of hurt expression; and he snaps, "Oh, just shut up!"

And with that, he wrenches himself from the room and slams the door as he goes, just for the hell of it.

Paul, still silent, sits and gapes after him.

Till snuffles with laughter. "Oh, God, those two…"

Paul turns towards us.

All I can do is shake my head.


	4. Paul

When I was a child of about six or seven, there was a book that sat high on the shelves at home. It was a paperback, the spine broken from repeated readings so much so that it curved inwards, defacing the title with long split lines of white and grey. Its neighbours were in better condition, and although they had exciting or interesting titles, it was the old battered book that caught me.

It never crossed my mind to ask my mother to reach the book down for me. I never asked what it was about. I just imagined. One day it was a great adventure story; the next it might be a love story, or a war story, or whatever my mind settled on at that time. It held the truth of the universe, the answers to all questions, the code to life, the key to understanding. And as I grew older, and my own questions ceased to be so childish, the book was still there; and even though I could take it up for myself and read, I left it on the shelf.

But I would occasionally find myself staring at it, and even, once or twice, my hand paused over its shattered spine, my fingers on the yellowed clasp of pages shut tight. And then I would be afraid to slide it from the shelf, to open it, in case the fragile binding gave way and the book fell to pieces in my hands.

My other fear was that the pages would be blank, or perhaps written in a tongue I didn't understand. Today I speak five languages, and while I can read the truth when it is written, I shy from the effort.

Talking is easy. Understanding the meaning behind the superficial codes of communication is more difficult, and I often get it wrong when it matters most.

Of all the things I've done in my life, this has to be the strangest. I fall in love over a book. Not my book, but _his_ journal. Yes, now I sound like a stalker, or at least a nosy bastard. Well, I am a nosy bastard; I'll admit that right off. I like to know how things – and people – work. None of this mystic-woo stuff that Till can do just because he feeds and sacrifices his own demons to the rest of us. None of the happy hope that Richard proudly possesses, nor the calm equanimity that Oliver seems to have, or the rather tempestuous understanding that comes from Flake… Everyone else seems to know stuff almost instinctively, or if they don't, then they are content to ride along and wait for answers. I'm not like that. I have to know. I have to understand. I have to share what I know, even if that means pissing them all off – and it does. Sometimes. I think.

I said everyone. I don't mean 'everyone'. There's one I don't get at all. Schneider… Christoph. And of course, I love a mystery. Literally, this time. I'm such an idiot to allow him to get to me, but – I can't help it. I mean, why the hell did he want to append the name 'Doom' to himself? Doom. Stupid word. He's not doom, although he is judgemental. Funny thing is, 'doom' – although English – has Germanic roots… and it means 'statue, something put into place'. And that's how I think of him, like a statue, almost too perfect and yes, certainly I have elevated him to pedestal level (although he's tall enough as he is), but now my lovely icon begins to crack and fall, because he's all too human beneath that façade.

That much I found out by cunning reference to his journal. He doesn't make a secret out of keeping a diary while we're on tour, but woe betide anyone – even Till – who gets too close when he's writing it. By 'close' I mean within a ten-foot radius, which fairly cancels out any of us going into the same space of the bus if he's scribbling away. But we've all seen him writing, and he has this cute habit of balancing the biro between his teeth and wagging the barrel up and down. Watch him do this for too long and it gets kind of horny.

Anyway.

His journal, then. It's nothing special, just a bog-standard notebook you can find in any bookstore. No fancy cover, no leather binding, no gold-leaf-edged pages. Just a sheaf of paper held together with glue and cardboard. And once, he left it out on the seats of the bus, beneath a cushion, where I found it.

I should feel bad about reading a private journal. They say that eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves; well, nosy bastards who read diaries should expect to read bad stuff about themselves, right?

Wrong.

I wasn't in there at all.

That's just so hurtful. I mean, Richard got a mention ("I'm so sick of him painting his fucking nails right in front of me, it gives me a headache, the smell of that crap and what the hell do they put in the remover, it's vile") and so did Oliver ("Olli is asleep") and Flake ("Flake snores, I want to kill the bastard") and he even counts how many bad moods Till went into over the course of one week. This is really riveting stuff, but I'm not in there.

So I turned a few pages, go deeper into the mindset of a man who calls himself 'Doom'. And after twenty pages of self-obsessed whining crap, there's a change. One so profound that I wonder if it's the same journal written by the same man. Even his writing frees up, stops being so crabbed and angular and starts flowing and curving, as sinuous and graceful as he is. And so I have to check; turn back to the beginning and look again, see the childish tantrums; then forwards and see all this.

He's constructed his journal as if he fears that somebody will find it. The average reader will pick up a book and begin at the first page; and if they find nothing of interest, or if they find themselves a target, then they will put down the book. And so for twenty-odd pages, Christoph has done precisely that: taken us down, rendered us in capricious and sometimes hurtful detail, and in doing so, has painted himself as black as he possibly could.

Doom indeed.

But not me. He didn't mention me. He could have said 'Number of times Paul has shut his gob today = 2' – yes I know I talk too much – but he didn't. Why? The possible answer agitates and excites me at the same time.

So I shuffled on through the pages of his real journal, and found this much more insightful. Whether he finds it so is another matter. One page is full of doodles: lazy inward-turning spirals, linked circles, triangles and pyramids and boxes with heavy cross-hatched bases and sides for definition. A looped meander runs endlessly up the side of the page, its tail lost in a nest of scrawl. Along the bottom of the paper are thick downward lines that slide off the page. Presumably a graphologist would understand this, but I don't. All I know is that in places, he's pressed down so hard with the pen that ink has smudged out and smeared across the paper; and in other places he's gone right through the page into the one beneath.

He was angry when he did this.

I wonder why I feel so upset.

On the following pages are quotations: from songs (yes, even our songs – is that pretentious?), from famous people, from literature. He's dated each one, sometimes commented on it, or inserted ellipses after it, as if he was unsure how to take it. But one page stood out, and not only because of the fact that I recognised the quote he'd lifted:

 _"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall:  
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.  
All the King's horses and all the King's men  
Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty in his place again." _

_"That last line is much too long for the poetry," she added, almost out loud, forgetting that Humpty Dumpty would hear her._

 _"Don't stand there chattering to yourself like that," Humpty Dumpty said, looking at her for the first time, "but tell me your name and your business."_

 _"My name is Alice, but--"_

 _"It's a stupid enough name!" Humpty Dumpty interrupted impatiently. "What does it mean?"_

 _"Must a name mean something?" Alice asked doubtfully._

 _"Of course it must," Humpty Dumpty said with a short laugh: "my name means the shape I am--and a good handsome shape it is, too. With a name like yours, you might be any shape, almost."_

 _"Why do you sit out here all alone?" said Alice, not wishing to begin an argument._

 _"Why, because there's nobody with me!" cried Humpty Dumpty. "Did you think I didn't know the answer to that? Ask another."_

Years ago, I read this book to my son, although he was far more interested in the Jabberwocky than the riddling Humpty Dumpty. And as I sat there holding Christoph's journal, the neat lines of his handwriting blurred before my eyes as I realised – or thought I realised – what he was about; why he chose that bloody stupid name; why he wrote this stuff down in the first place.

And right then, like my namesake on the road to Damascus, I had a realisation: I knew that I was in love with him.

Stupid, isn't it. To fall in love over a book - over a passage from a book, even.

Now, as I watch him bolt out of Till's room after telling me to shut up – and I wasn't talking, I can't talk around him anymore for fear of blurting out too much – now I remember that the wall that Humpty sat on was very narrow.

Last night we fought, him with words as his weapons and me with uncharacteristic silence, and somehow – tension or relief or whatever – we found ourselves on his bed in a sort of strangled embrace, half-destructive, half-constructive.

And there I awoke this morning, although beneath the duvet and with him away from me and pretending it never happened. So I kissed him again in the morning as I had last night, forgetting that the wall is narrow and that he might fall off if pushed a little too hard.

But is falling a bad thing?

Depends if he's broken or not, I guess.

I turn to look at Richard and Till, who stand in the doorway to the bathroom and who stare at me very seriously like a pair of blinking owls. They can hoot all they want at me right now, but I don't care. I get up from the sofa and leave the room, looking for Christoph.

He hasn't gone far. He's standing out in the corridor, at the end where it opens up into a space beside the lifts, and he's gazing at his reflection in the mirror set into the wall between the two elevators. He sees me coming towards him, but he doesn't run this time. He turns his head slightly as I approach; and looks sidelong at me over his shoulder. "You going to talk?" he demands almost rudely.

"Only if you're going to listen," I say.

He puts both hands onto the mirror and leans forward, his head bowing and his fingers tapping on the silvered glass. His voice is muffled when he says, "Talk, then."

"The wall, Chris," I say. "Too narrow for you. Too high. Wouldn't you be safer on the ground?"

The drumming stops and he turns around. "You're the bastard that read my journal!"

I nod slowly. "Yes."

"I knew somebody had – but… You -" Christoph folds his arms and his fingers flutter again, just the once.

"I won't let you fall," I whisper, "I won't let you break," and it's an offer I never thought I'd make.

He goes absolutely and perfectly still, like the statue I once thought him to be; then he takes two steps forwards and kisses me.

And when we come up for air, he's grinning like an idiot, and so am I.

"Hello," he says, so softly it's like the dawn.

"Hello," I respond, and it's as simple as that.


	5. Oliver

Ah, the adoring public. How nice it is to be gaped and gawped at, as if we're so many freaks. Well, I guess we are: and if that's the case, then I'm surely one of the freakiest of the freaks. Size makes no difference, they say; but I rather think it does. Okay, maybe I'm wrong: size makes no difference but height does. Head in the clouds, that's me. Quite literally. But being so tall does give me a different perspective.

Now I'm not talking literally.

Not entirely, anyway. Sure, I can look down on people, but then, so can Paul. In fact, Paul can look down on me far better than I can look down on him, if we're talking metaphorically. See, I'm disadvantaged: I'm self-conscious. And he isn't.

Although lately I'm wondering about that last assumption. Like today. Usually he gabbles on as fast as he can draw breath, or he comes and sits beside you and asks question after question, and doesn't wait for an answer before telling you his opinion. That's the mark of a man who's sure of himself. If you're unsure of yourself, like me, then you just shut the fuck up and try to hide – even if you're nearly seven feet tall. Yeah, I can hide pretty well when I have to.

Like now. Signing stuff isn't really a chore, but it can get that way after a couple of years doing the same thing over and over. There's only so many ways to sign one's name, after all, and yeah, the muscles in your face ache from all the smiling.

Today as we sit behind the trestle tables and sign whatever is pushed our way, I have time to withdraw into myself as Till and Richard field a small stampede of women. Flake has managed to attract a particularly verbose fan that makes wild gestures with his hands. Paul is still calmly signing a poster for a young woman, smiling at her and yes, talking at her. I let my gaze drift up the length of the table until I notice Christoph; and to my astonishment, he looks angry.

No. Not angry. Jealous.

Jealous?!

Of Paul? Of the girl?

I have no time to ponder further on this, as the event manager scurries in and dismisses the fans with the announcement of lunch. As I move forwards, Christoph realises I was looking at him and gives me a peculiarly blank look.

I stare back. He's a deep bastard, deeper than Till in some respects, because at least our wordsmith doesn't hide his grumpy angst beneath some perfect veneer of brittleness. But Christoph… try to get close and he'll shut you down so fast it's like the three-minute warning's been given.

Anyway, I know what's going on. I may be quiet, but hell, I'm not dumb. And I'm proved right when we're shunted into some pretentious little Italian restaurant. As usual we all randomly grab a chair and sit down. Till starts smoking, despite the little sign that specifically forbids him to do so, and which Flake points out to him with a fastidious flick of a finger. Till blows a smoke ring in response. Rock 'n' roll isn't quite dead.

Richard reads the menu backwards. He always starts with dessert, maybe so he knows how to co-ordinate the taste sensation throughout his meal, I don't know. Paul orders about twenty things without actually looking at the menu, his accent in Italian sort of sweet and ringing. I didn't realise that he spoke Italian, but I guess it's close to Spanish… The waiter seems to understand, and notes it all down carefully before turning to me.

I point mutely at the name of a dish and hope it's good. Beside me, Christoph fiddles with a silver fork, pushing it across the tablecloth and turning it over and over. When asked, he can't decide what he wants and so says he's not hungry.

Not hungry, indeed. I've never seen a man that looked more starved, although it's not for food that he's hungering. His fingers stop their agitated twisting of the fork when the waiter removes the cutlery from the place-setting, and he looks almost distraught. Nothing to play with; nothing to distract himself with. His hands wrap themselves tight about the stem of the glass of red wine that's poured for him, but he doesn't drink it. He just stares into it like a haruspex.

I could tell him that the future is built on the foundation of the past. I could tell him that I know why he and Paul fought last night, that it was inevitable and that really, Paul is just so right for him if only he gave him a chance.

But something tells me that he knows all this already. Story of my life. I could offer the greatest advice in the world, but I'm always beaten to it because I don't trust myself not to make a fool of myself, and I don't want to draw attention to myself, even amongst this lot.

So, as lunch arrives, I watch Christoph and Paul with a fascination shared by the others.

They sit opposite one another and feast with their eyes. Forget the food, it doesn't exist. They're intent only on devouring each other, but in such an exquisite way. I guess we've all been awaiting this: the tension in Christoph was awesome to behold, and Paul's breathless chatter had got more tedious than usual – but now they're here, at the threshold, they're suddenly both waiting.

They're not afraid. It's not that that holds them back. It's something else. Anticipation. Of all things, the most glorious is anticipation, for it heightens the senses and fine-tunes the will. They could have invented an excuse and spent the last four hours fucking each other's brains out, but here they sit, desire simmering on a low heat.

"…Christoph, Christos, Chryseis… the good and the golden…" Paul is saying, sotto voce but still loud enough to carry to us – although we're not really listening. Oh no, we're not. I cast a glance sidelong to see how the Good and the Golden One is taking all this. Surprisingly well, actually. In fact, he looks… pleased. Happy. Blazing, even.

Who'd have thought it?

"You talk as much as Chrysostum," Till comments from the other end of the table as he curls his fork into a plateful of tagliatelle.

"Hmm?" Richard, at least, was concentrating on his food. "Who's that, then?"

"Famous orator," Till says, making sure the pasta is balanced as he lifts the fork from the plate. "Talked a lot. And well. John Chrysostum. The golden-tongued."

Flake smirks into his glass of Pinot Noir.

Paul's trying to work out if that was a compliment or not, and Christoph is suddenly looking across the table at him with hooded and lascivious eyes.

"Golden-tongued…?" he murmurs; and as a come-on it's kind of blatant, but my God, it works. Even I sense a pull of attraction, so I feel sorry for Paul when he drops his fork in dazzled confusion. Poor innocent piece of cutlery, it falls headlong into the creamy sauce smothering a piece of veal; and so Christoph, playing up, retrieves it. He slides a finger along the top edge to clean it, then absently and artfully sucks his finger, his gaze suitably demure until the moment he looks up to pin Paul, the tip of his finger still between his lips.

I swear the sparks are visible. Christoph has eyes that could hypnotise at twenty paces, and Paul's always seem to shift colour; but now they're pewter-blue, intent and still and as sharp as a blade. He's not just staring at Christoph, he's fucking him with his eyes; and Schneider is giving back as good as he gets.

"For God's sake, go and fuck him," I blurt out, although I'm not sure which of them I'm talking to; and as soon as the words have left my mouth I'm horrified at my bluntness and feel myself blushing slightly as they all stare at me in complete silence.

Christoph drops the fork back into the sauce, and Paul looks at it dumbly.

"That," says Till reasonably, "is the best suggestion I've heard today."

Flake nods. "But who were you talking to, Olli? Who should fuck whom?"

And they're all staring at me again, and I'm embarrassed, so I say, "Does it matter? Either way, they have their assignment… Now get to it."

Paul looks up from his plate and smiles at Christoph, and it's the sweetest damn thing I've seen all week. And Christoph, not to be outdone, starts to laugh.

I glance up the table and Richard gives me a gentle look. "You know something, Olli?" he says. "You're very funny, and very wise."

He raises his glass to me; and I relax properly at last, and raise my own. "Cheers."


	6. Flake

Even with Olli's command – an order made irresistible because it was so unexpected – our two lovebirds still sit and coo at one another for a half-hour more. No, that's not quite true: I don't actually think they make a single sound to each other, although Oliver and I are occasionally lucky enough to get a sentence out of Paul on the quality of the dessert or something as banal as that.

But who needs words anyway? They're totally superfluous right now. There's far too much effort involved in actually thinking coherently and making a sentence to convey meaning.

Instead, they just do that thing with their eyes. It's high entertainment, and my God, our little Paul is a revelation. Christoph – well, he's something else entirely, he can flirt like a houri without even thinking about it despite the icy exterior; but Paul I always found to be quite the opposite. You live and learn, though. Paul's gaze could strip paint. It's certainly stripped Christoph.

God knows how they're keeping control. Why are they torturing each other like this? Yes, it's pleasurable to string out emotion: but this…

I wonder if it's just a continuation of last night's fight: an exercise in power, maybe. That's all those two have been about, all along – even from the very first. Both of them looking for trouble, stirring things up, causing controversy.

Well, now they've found it.

Last night was when we'd all expected something to happen. It'd been coming for a while: Paul's chatter reaching a crescendo of idiotic inanity when he started a conversation about the device on the hotel's linen, of all things. By conversation I mean 'monologue', since there was little chance for sensible comment in return – even if we'd wanted to make it.

The hotel's crest has a unicorn rearing up onto its hind legs, its head turning back over its shoulder. Around its neck is a collar and chain. A pretty standard device, you'd think – but Paul was away, drawing parallels with each and every obscure house of royal or noble blood until even Till's weird expression was worn thin and came crashing down in a haze of cigarette smoke and the fug of Jack Daniels.

The rest of us made good our escape when Paul momentarily broke off from his talking heads scenario and noticed that Till's glazed look had its root in something other than his yapping. Assured that we – Richard, Olli and I – would drag our comatose friend to his bed, Paul resumed his unicorn chat with a trapped-looking Christoph.

We thought it was funny. It got better.

After we'd dispersed to our own rooms, and while I was reading some trashy paperback I'd found, I heard raised voices in the corridor. Not drunken voices. Just loud. And I recognised them both.

"- unicorns are fucking stupid!"

"No, no, they have intrinsic meaning beyond the fairytale ethos -"

"What are you babbling about, 'fairytale ethos'? My God, Paul, why the fuck did you pick on me, I don't want to hear your stupid, stupid talk -"

"Then why did you -"

At this most interesting juncture, the door to Christoph's room slammed shut.

For a moment I imagined that Paul had been left standing out in the corridor, but no. The voices continued on the other side of my wall, although they were a little obscured now.

I shuffled back in the bed to listen in. Since the start of the year Till's been running a book on when Christoph and Paul would fuck each other, and if I was the one to hear the evidence then I'd get the hundred dollars extra.

Childish? Yes. Pathetic? Surely.

But who cares. It's fun.

The rowing continued, and to my surprise it was Christoph who was really having a go. He slammed his words out like he's drumming, his voice steady and rhythmic rather than the usual thing of the tone getting higher and higher until the shout becomes a shriek becomes a scream. And this relentless charge of words meant that, for once, Paul had no comeback.

How utterly delicious.

I jumped a little when the 'phone rang, and I hurried to answer it, not wanting to disturb the action next door.

It was Richard, who – across the hall – could probably hear some of it.

"Is it them?"

"The fishwives? Yeah."

He chuckled. "At last."

"They're still fighting. Well, Chris is shouting and Paul isn't."

I could almost hear him grin at this. "Shame I can't hear them properly."

"Pervert. Well, you could always come along here and listen at the wall. Bring your own glass."

"Now who's the pervert, hmm? I believe you."

There was a thud from next door and I nearly dropped the 'phone. "Oh-oh…"

"What?!"

"Violence!" I snorted, wishing that Christoph had left his balcony doors open so I could hear better. "Oh – he's telling Paul he hates him, now. Yeah, that's a good one."

"Aww, stop it, you cynic. You're worse than Till."

"Till's a romantic. Why shouldn't I be cynical?"

"Because you were the one to say they'd get together - and because I say so."

Hah. Richard's word is law (or so he thinks), so I ignored that comment and continued being cynical. "Yes, they'll get together, but it won't last. Chris is a slut -"

"He needs stability."

"- and Paul talks too much -"

"He needs silence."

"- and you have an answer for everything."

"I have a good heart. Now shut up and tell me what's happening."

I clutched the 'phone a little tighter and pressed my ear to the wall again. The throb of Christoph's voice had lowered to a growl; and irritatingly, I couldn't hear anything beyond the vaguest of sounds. It continued for a long time, then – so suddenly and clearly I jumped again – Paul said "Chris!" and there was a muffled thud and thump and thunk.

Then silence.

"What happened?" Richard demanded.

I told him. "I think they killed each other."

"They're making love."

"I'd hear it, they're not doing anything."

"Kissing, then."

"They'd roll about and make a noise. You know Paul, he's very enthusiastic."

Richard snorted. "What are you suggesting, Flake?"

"Nothing… No, it's all gone quiet.

"They know you're listening."

My turn to laugh. "How the fuck do they know that?"

"Okay, maybe not. They're asleep, then."

"Hmm. That doesn't count, does it?" I asked, thinking of my hundred bucks.

"Nope. They're still just babes in the wood. Damn."

"Now who's the romantic?"

"I never made a secret of it. 'Night, Flake."

"Yeah. 'Night."

And I hung up, and went to sleep.

But even though last night wasn't The Night, it changed them. I can see it. Hell, we all can – even Olli. And now they have to find their own conclusion, whether this is just a power-game or, as Richard says, if it's something more.

I hope it's something more.

Yes, I might be a cynic, but I like to be wrong now and then. That's what keeps a cynic mean and nasty: the threat of failure.

Besides, I had a little side-bet that they wouldn't jump their fences at the first, and so – having been proved right – I want another hundred dollars.


	7. Christoph

And so, inevitable as it may be, here we are again in my room. Last night I was so angry with him I couldn't think straight. Now I'm just – just –

Nervous.

Shit. I only had half a glass at lunch. Half a glass and I feel terrible. I need more; and my first instinct is to go across the room towards the mini-bar.

Paul closes the door behind him and leans against it for a moment, amusement lighting his eyes as he watches my progression from sofa to bar to table to bar. What was I doing again?

"Drink. You want a drink?" I blather.

"No, thanks."

"I need one. Um. Food, then. Want something to eat?" I grab the first bottle of alcohol that comes out of the bar and knock it back. Idiot. Gin should always be cut with something. Christ! The harsh taste of the junipers makes my head spin, and I cough.

"I don't want food. We just had lunch," Paul says.

"Yeah. But I didn't eat."

"You weren't hungry."

He's laughing at me. I can't stand it. It's bad enough that the others are expecting us to fuck – Olli practically shouted out the order at us in the restaurant – but what if this is all a joke to him?

I mean, he's read my journal, and he must've seen through that. I hope he did. I didn't mean to leave it out there, I thought –

No. I wanted him to read it. He seems to know so much; and now, when he could be telling me what I need to know, he's silent.

Does that mean he has no answers for me, or does it just mean that there are no answers, full stop?

Argh. Why am I doing this to myself?

I slam the bottle of gin down onto the table and glare at him. "You don't want a drink. You don't want food -"

"Chris, I just want you," he says, very softly.

Oh God.

Paul moves towards me and – as he did last night – he perches on the carved wooden bedstead. He gives me a little smile, and I'm relieved when I think I see a flash of timidity cross his face. For all his bravado in the restaurant, maybe he's just as nervous as I am.

So. Do I want to do this?

"Come here," he says.

I let go of the gin and wipe my fingers on my trousers as I patter over to him. As I stand there, he raises a hand and touches my waist, fits his palm snug to my hip.

"I want," he says unevenly, "I want to wake up tomorrow with you in my arms. Properly. Not like this morning, with you on the other side of the bed and me buried under the bloody duvet -"

I laugh. Or try to. It sounds like a whimper. I have to pull myself together. The last two times, he's kissed me. I don't suppose he's counting, but just in case…

There's only a partial recollection of Till's kisses when I kiss Paul. I guess you always compare lovers, no matter which gender they are or how pissed you were at the time. Till's an immensely soppy bastard, unless he's very drunk – in which case he's either funny-aggressive or bloody maudlin. I got him soppy-funny-aggressive, and that suited me fine back then. Don't know how it'd feel now.

Paul, though. Less sure of himself than I thought. Tentative… Nice. Very nice. Mmm. He tastes of that red wine from lunch, all dark warmth and heady scent, and I feel guilty for swigging the gin. They say you should never mix wine with spirits.

Bollocks to that.

I deepen the kiss and push against him. He responds, wraps his arms about my waist and strokes my back slowly, so that my shirt caresses my skin. Damn, that's sexy. Everything in me seems sensitised; like I feel when the air's charged with electricity before a thunderstorm, and my head is so heavy I can barely keep upright. I lean into Paul a little more. He doesn't resist; lets me closer, closer –

And then we both tumble backwards off the bedstead onto the mattress, me in Paul's arms and he laughing and both of us feeling rather foolish.

"Guess we're better lying down, anyway," he says.

I snuffle a giggle into his T-shirt and beam happily. "Yes."

"Bloody hell, but you're gorgeous."

It would be rude of me to disagree. I like being the object of affection when such a subject operates upon me, so I continue smiling. I also continue sliding my hands up and down his thighs, and he seems to like this. He likes it a lot. He tells me how much he likes it, although his voice is a bit breathless.

I interrupt. "Shut up and kiss me."

"Never deny a man called Doom."

"No. Never."

More kisses, sweeter than before - rougher, too. Funny how that combination works now: I never thought it did. He breaks off, even more breathless, and purrs something indistinguishable at me before his tongue flicks across my ear and curls inside briefly to trace the curves and canals.

I think I stop breathing, too. A grasp of such urgent desire seizes me that I also stop thinking. This is a good thing. Thinking is bad for the brain. I can only feel, a crazed hedonistic rush of – of – something.

Paul's tongue trails damply across my skin, the point of it working back and forth to make the most glorious patterns on my cheek, my neck; and then he dips down into the open collar of my shirt and licks the hollow of my throat. He should be used to the weird noises I make at him by now, but God, I like this - and the noise I produce in response is coupled with a desperate lunge back onto the duvet so he can do it again. And again. He can lick my throat all night if he wants to.

He wants to. My pulse goes off the scale, beats far too quickly for me to keep time, and for once I don't know what to do with my hands. He knows. God, he's clever… He takes my hands and puts them on him, so I unzip him and I unzip me and we squash together, my hands trying to cup both of us as I adjust to the sudden heat and smell of him.

And in case I was in need of a distraction, he continues licking my throat. After waiting all day – all my life? – for this, everything's beginning to move rather fast, and I wish I could slow it, draw back the tempo to enjoy it more. The first time is always going to be a squander of emotion, a practice for the real thing, but still I wish I could make it perfect, to give Paul what he most wants from me.

I either say that aloud or he can read my mind, for he lifts his head from my chest and says "I only want you, Chris, in whatever way I can have you."

And after that little announcement, I'm utterly lost; and we descend into a wild little tangle that – inevitably – doesn't last long. We're wearing too many clothes, are in quite the wrong position on the bed, he's saying nonsense things and I'm aware only of sensation and closeness and just how damn good he feels beside me.

We make a mess of our clothes. We can take them off.

"So," I say afterwards.

He raises his eyebrows. "So."

I unbutton the rest of my shirt; but lazily, so he can watch me. "You going to talk?"

"Nope. Got nothing to say." He looks smug, but in a good way.

"So all that talking before… Were you trying to court me?"

Paul laughs, liking the idea. "Maybe."

"Courting disaster."

"No, courting Doom."

"Same thing." I lie back on the duvet and feel a pang of bleakness as the high of what we've done begins to curl around the edges. My hands are lying folded across my stomach, and, as this conversation progresses, my fingers start their agitated drumming, even though I try to calm them.

He rolls onto his side and looks at me steadily for a moment, while I try to ignore him by staring fixedly at the ceiling. "You're not a catastrophe," he says. "You're a fucking miracle."

I snort. "Fucked many miracles, have you?" – but inside I'm glowing.

"Only one."

Paul puts a hand over both of mine, and my fingers flutter, raise up against his palm, then lie still.

"Only one," he repeats, his voice all soft and husky.

Damn. I think I'm in love.


End file.
